June 19, 2012

The Skirt She Grew Into

I ordered the skirt to use up a gift card when I got the shoes she grew out of six months ago.

When it arrived, it was impossibly huge. I knew it would take years for her to grow into it. So I put it away at the bottom of a drawer.

I was sad when she grew out of the shoes, because I didn't remind her to wear them nearly enough. They were green with little pink animals on the toes. I can't remember which animals. I should've looked closer before I gave them away.

This morning when I dropped her off at summer camp, I realized she was wearing it: the impossibly large skirt. And she had pigtails she did herself without any help from me.

Last night before her swimming lesson, she begged me to get in the pool with her. I didn't want to, but I did. We played dolphin and I swirled her around, and as I did, I saw a woman with a toddler doing the same thing, and I told my girl stories about when she was two, her long legs hanging down nearly to my knees as I held her in the water like a child much younger than eight. I hugged her fiercely and was glad I'd plunged in -- to the pool, to motherhood -- even though the water was shockingly cold on impact.

I hugged her goodbye this morning, the child who used to throw herself at the door of daycare screaming, "MOMMY, DON'T LEAVE ME!" and she smiled and picked her way through the crowd to sit by her friends, flipping her pigtail over her shoulder without looking back.

And all the drive home, I thought about the skirt, and how it isn't too big any longer.

Comments

I ordered the skirt to use up a gift card when I got the shoes she grew out of six months ago.

When it arrived, it was impossibly huge. I knew it would take years for her to grow into it. So I put it away at the bottom of a drawer.

I was sad when she grew out of the shoes, because I didn't remind her to wear them nearly enough. They were green with little pink animals on the toes. I can't remember which animals. I should've looked closer before I gave them away.

This morning when I dropped her off at summer camp, I realized she was wearing it: the impossibly large skirt. And she had pigtails she did herself without any help from me.

Last night before her swimming lesson, she begged me to get in the pool with her. I didn't want to, but I did. We played dolphin and I swirled her around, and as I did, I saw a woman with a toddler doing the same thing, and I told my girl stories about when she was two, her long legs hanging down nearly to my knees as I held her in the water like a child much younger than eight. I hugged her fiercely and was glad I'd plunged in -- to the pool, to motherhood -- even though the water was shockingly cold on impact.

I hugged her goodbye this morning, the child who used to throw herself at the door of daycare screaming, "MOMMY, DON'T LEAVE ME!" and she smiled and picked her way through the crowd to sit by her friends, flipping her pigtail over her shoulder without looking back.

And all the drive home, I thought about the skirt, and how it isn't too big any longer.